


Better Than Magic

by Cat1ing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Potterlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Slash, Wizard John Watson, Wizard Sherlock Holmes, because seasons 3 and 4 don't exist duh, denial is fun, season 1 Sherlock, season 2 is okay as long as Sherlock and John work past the fall and find each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:22:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29692215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat1ing/pseuds/Cat1ing
Summary: It wasn’t that John did poorly at Hogwarts.It was just that the magic didn't listen.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Better Than Magic

It wasn’t that John did poorly at Hogwarts. 

He always turned in his scrolls on time. His wand technique was exemplary, and his Latin pronunciation superb. His knowledge of wizard history was vast, and his potions were careful, ingredients measured exactly. He had a green thumb when it came to magical plants, and even the prickliest magical creature calmed under John’s confident hand.

John was a smart boy, all of his professors agreed, and he performed spells exactly as he had been taught. The problem, however, was that magic didn’t always listen to John Watson _.  _

As a child, before the letter from Hogwarts arrived, John had laid in his bed at night and felt the magic throbbing with his heartbeat. He'd look at his hands and be shocked that he couldn't see the power dripping from his fingers, so great was the sensation of being utterly and completely swathed in magic _.  _

But once he arrived at Hogwarts, he found that simple spells took weeks for him to master. His diction and wand-work were perfect, while the magic slipped away like water. If one in five of his charms actually stuck, he was lucky. He understood the theory behind the magic, the motions and the words, and everyone agreed that when John performed a spell, it should work.

Most of the time it didn’t. 

John’s failures sat in his chest, forming a thick knot of hurt. He got through his O.W.L.S. on sheer stubbornness, but he didn’t bother to sit for his N.E.W.T.S. He knew that he could never pass the practicals. And so while his classmates studied late into the night, took potions to keep themselves awake, and moaned to each other about how much there was to learn, John kept his own counsel. 

Plenty of jobs in the wizarding world didn’t require N.E.W.T.S., he told his friends. He had a world of opportunities at his fingertips just being a Hogwarts graduate, he told his professors. He pretended not to notice the pitying looks.

He’d smile, turn away, and he would seethe _.  _

_ - _

“Come visit me in Romania,” Charlie said.

John set down his glass of butterbeer with more force than necessary and goggled. “And do what? Get my hide burnt off by dragons?”

Charlie cackled and ran his fingers through his ginger fringe. “My hide is quite intact and lovely, thank you very much.” 

Rolling his eyes, John took another sip of his drink. It was the winter holiday, John’s last at Hogwarts, and he was staying on campus like he always did. The castle was empty, but somehow still felt warmer than home, what with a dad who had set aside his wand for a bottle of whiskey and a sister who had never forgiven John for receiving an invitation to Hogwarts when she hadn’t.

The Hog’s Head pub was busy, and a cheerful fire warmed John’s back. He rested his chin on his fist and asked, “What would I even do there?” He couldn’t believe he was even considering this.

“What are you going to do here?” Charlie asked, leaning forward suddenly and catching John’s gaze with such intensity that John couldn’t look away, even if he had wanted to. John was reminded of what had made Charlie such a formidable captain on the Quidditch pitch. 

“Look, Watson,” Charlie went on, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “Those of us who work with dragons, we’re in near-constant need for healing. And there’s this chap - his name is Sholto. He’s a real solid sort, and he could be working at any hospital, but he’s with us. And he’s always going on about how much healing can be done without spells. He’d like you. And I think you’d like him too.”

Suddenly Charlie’s green eyes saw too much. John looked down, studying his hands, and he thought about the rejection letter from St. Mungo’s shoved under his mattress in his dorm room. It had been a stupid dream, he thought. What use could St. Mungo’s have for a broken wizard like him?

This was the other reason John had been so drawn to the Weasley boy. Charlie had never cared if John’s magic obeyed him, only if John could stay atop his broom and beat the bludgers away. He cared about what John could  _ do _ , not what he couldn’t.

“You’ll like it,” Charlie said, his voice low and sly, as though he knew he had John. “It’s right up your alley. Dragons and adventure - could be dangerous.”

John raised a single eyebrow.

-

It turned out that Sholto really didn’t care if John’s spells were just as likely to crumble like sand as listen when John waved his wand. The senior wizard only cared that John was thoughtful and steadfast, not scared of the dragons, and didn’t become sickly around blood or claw injuries. 

Magic was necessary for most healing work, but there were some things that needed to be done manually, and for the first time, John found something that came easily to him. He was  _ good  _ at the non-magical parts of healing. Besides, there was always another wizard around who could provide a spell if John’s didn’t work. 

And soon a summer trotting behind Sholto became a six month apprenticeship, and six months with the dragons became five years. John learned how to mend the human body without charms and spells, and the memory of his time at Hogwarts became dimmer and less painful. John had found a place where he fit.

-

Sometimes, almost always late at night and usually after a day in which there had been a bad injury, when he couldn’t turn his mind off for sleep, John would let his old hurt loose. He knew he’d feel better with the dawn, like he always did, but in the dark he could allow himself a few hours of feeling the old pain spread through his chest. He’d stay awake all night, staring at the stars and wondering if he hated the wizarding world. He could remember when, as a child, magic had been something special, something awe-inspiring and  _ fun _ , but that had changed when he learned that there were rules to wizardry.

And then the sun would come up, and John would take a deep breath, let his hurt fade, and go about his day.

-

Voldemort came back. 

John only vaguely remembered Harry Potter, a first year with too much temper and not enough sense of self-preservation, from that ordeal with the Philosopher’s Stone during John’s seventh year when he was busy not studying for his N.E.W.T.S. and desperately pretending that he didn’t care.

John didn’t have a place in the wizarding world. But he felt like he knew right from wrong, and he knew that Potter was right and that Voldemort was the worst type of bully.

So John Watson followed Harry Potter into war.

In the first month of the war, John took a hex to the leg. It didn’t do any permanent damage, but John would never be able to forget the searing pain when it had first hit him. He spent the remainder of the war with a limp. 

At the Battle of Hogwarts, a spell destroyed John’s left shoulder and took him out of the fight for good. Delirious and forgotten on the edge of the battlefield, John didn’t see Voldemort fall nor the war end.

Later, after he had been found and nursed back to health, after it became clear that even magic couldn’t completely heal his shoulder, after all the healers agreed that his leg didn’t even need healing (even if it still refused to bear his full weight), John would wonder if he was the only one who looked around the jubilant and celebrating wizarding world and felt only emptiness. He knew he couldn't return to the physicality of his job in Romania. 

With no other options left, John limped back to London.

-

Later, John would puzzle at the chain of events that started with him meeting an old classmate in the park and led to him agreeing to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock was mad - John was sure of it. His name was mad, as was his appearance, and even the way he practiced magic - wildly and as though he didn’t care if his spell landed or went amok - should have terrified John, he thought. 

It didn’t. 

John could admit that Sherlock was dangerous and often a bit of a prat. But he was also fun and  _ interesting,  _ and when John was with him, he was able to forget the phantom ache in his leg and the old hurt in his chest. Running through the streets of Muggle London, John again felt like he had discovered a place where he could belong - at Sherlock’s side.

Besides, after their first night together, Sherlock did what countless healers had been unable: he cured John’s psychosomatic limp. 

-

Sherlock didn’t care that John’s magic didn’t work right.

One week after moving in, John had offered his new flatmate tea and Sherlock had hummed in response. (John was learning the differences between these hums - there was the one that meant “yes,” the one that meant “no,” and even one that meant “I’m not listening to you and if you ask me later I won’t remember that you spoke to me at all.”)

John padded into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his belly through his thin T-shirt, and he turned on the kettle. He then jumped when Sherlock suddenly spoke from directly over his right shoulder. The man could be a walking disaster - usually late at night when John was trying to sleep - but he could also walk as quietly as a cat. 

“Why do you always turn on the kettle manually?” Sherlock asked, peering at John as though he were a pinned insect. “You have your wand in your pocket - you always do. Why not use magic?”

John felt his shoulders tense, and he turned back to the kettle. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t want to see Sherlock’s face when he found out that his flatmate was little more than a glorified Squib. It had happened before with other friends, and John hated it every time.

“Just because you have magic,” John said carefully, “doesn’t mean everything has to be done with it.”

Sherlock frowned - John could not see him but he heard it in his voice. “Your household was at least partially Muggle.” He paused, and then continued. “It would have been your mother - she was the Muggle. It makes sense you would mimic how she performed tasks. But you do  _ everything  _ the ordinary way. Yesterday morning you swept up the shards of my flasks with a broom, and you reset the pilot light in the oven by hand on Wednesday.”

Taking deep breaths, John decided that now was as good a time as any for his flatmate to know the truth. He kept his back to Sherlock so he couldn’t see his face. “Well, my magic doesn’t always work.” John hated how small his voice sounded. “To be honest, it usually doesn’t.”

“What do you mean your magic doesn’t work?” Sherlock’s voice wasn’t cruel, merely curious. “You’re not  _ that  _ clever-” John rolled his eyes, even knowing Sherlock couldn’t see the expression. “But you’re hardly stupid either. You should have been able to memorize the spells and wand motions. And you are almost overflowing with magic - it’s quite loud when you walk into the room. Your skin almost pulses with it.”

John blinked at his teacup. “I don’t know, Sherlock,” he said, turning around and deciding that if he was going to do this, he’d face the other man. 

Sherlock’s eyes, those strange pale eyes, were intent on his face. His eyebrows were drawn down, his full lower lip caught in his teeth. His gaze moved constantly over John’s form, as though he could tease out the solution by looking closely enough.

“It’s always been like this,” John said. He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the desire to curl into himself. “I know the spells, and I get the theory behind them. I can picture the way the magic is supposed to go. But when I try to direct the magic, it does whatever it wants. Sometimes it all goes right, but most of the time the magic just ... goes away.”

Sherlock’s gaze locked on his own. It was a strange and heady sensation to be the sole attention of Sherlock’s focus. His eyes were almost burning in their intensity, and John fought the urge to shudder.

And then it was over. Sherlock blinked, and his expression softened. “Interesting,” he said, and he spun on his heels. He snagged his violin and returned to the living room. Soon the room was filled with a cacophony of sharp and irregular noises, interrupted haphazardly with lovely strings of song.

The kettle behind him began to whistle and John, who had forgotten for a moment its very existence, jumped.

-

Sherlock wasn’t the most powerful wizard that John had ever met. But he knew more spells than John, had memorized the most archaic charms and hexes, and his understanding of plants and potions bordered on encyclopedic. His power was not vast, but sometimes it seemed to John that he  _ crackled  _ with it. Magic swept around Sherlock like his ridiculously dramatic coat, sweeping around his body as he turned and paced across their flat, glittering around his fingers when he gesticulated at a crime scene, and spilled from his lips with a few short words. 

He wasn’t powerful in strength, but his use of magic was flawless, as though magic was just another part of his body for him to direct with perfect command.

-

“You weren’t at Hogwarts,” John said one day. 

Their kitchen table was covered in the dried remains of various plants, just half of which John recognized, and Sherlock was finely chopping their roots, making small piles in a pattern only he knew. John was in the living room, ostensibly enjoying the heat of the fire, but actually keeping watch to ensure his flatmate didn’t accidentally poison himself.

Sherlock hummed in response, and John recognized it as his negative hum.

“You’re younger than me, but older than Harry Potter. I would have seen you.”

Sherlock grumbled under his breath, and John couldn’t hear all that he said, but the gist seemed to be that Harry Potter was a ridiculous show-off. 

“No, Beauxbatons,” Sherlock finally said, his voice distant with distraction. “Mummy’s family was French.”

John nodded and then winced as Sherlock grasped a leaf in long fingers, frowned at it, and then gently touched it to his tongue. His lower lip gleamed with saliva, and John found himself staring for several long moments. He tore his eyes away, and reached for his crossword and found himself saying. “Makes sense - that rumor’s true then. Good to know.”

Sherlock hummed again, intent on his plants, and then his head came up. He focused with laser-like intensity on John’s face. “Wait. What rumor?”

John felt his face flush. “You know,” he said, trailing off and looking at Sherlock meaningfully. The other man’s expression barely changed, but his eyes narrowed impossibly more. “That, uh, everyone who goes to Beauxbatons is quite, you know, fit.”

Sherlock was still staring at him, so John made a big show of snagging a quill so that he could start his crossword. After a few moments, Sherlock hummed again. This time, John wasn’t sure what the hum meant.

-

Sherlock moved through the magical world with a grace that John could never imagine possessing. The Holmes were purebloods who could trace their family line almost as far back as Merlin. Mycroft used his lineage to burrow so deeply into wizard bureaucracy that his name was almost synonymous with the Ministry, John often thought.

Sherlock used his heritage differently. The man knew Diagon Alley like the back of his hand, and he retained an intimate knowledge of every dark corner of Knockturn Alley. He knew exactly where an illegal talisman would be purchased - a skill he seemed to take perverse pleasure in demonstrating to John. He was as comfortable conversing with a werewolf as a wand-maker. 

Yet in some ways, John felt like Sherlock was as much of an outsider as himself. Sherlock flitted through the magical community, never staying long enough to lay down any roots. Wherever he went, dragging John along, he was a visitor. Lestrade’s team of Aurors peered at him with suspicion, and while Sherlock had a great many acquaintances, he had no other friends, as far as John could tell.

With Sherlock, John spent hours investigating illicitly cursed items, trolling through the magical nooks and crannies of magical London, and interrogating humans and the more advanced magical creatures alike. As the months went by, John grew more comfortable talking to other wizards, but he still felt like an interloper amongst them. 

Still, the old hurt in his chest waned. He remained an outsider but - he was surprised to discover - it felt different when you were an outsider with someone else.

-

“John.”

Flipping through his newspaper, John ignored his flatmate. It was a rainy weekend morning, and John was planning to have a lazy day. He had a hot cuppa at his elbow and the entire Daily Prophet to enjoy. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was slightly more insistent. 

Refusing to look up, John shook out his paper. “Sherlock, I just sat down. Unless you’re going to tell me that something’s about to explode, I’m not getting up.”

The answering silence was a little too pointed.

Wincing, John dropped the paper and hurried into the kitchen. Sherlock was frowning at his cauldron, where a wicked-looking purplish potion was boiling. It emitted wisps of yellow smoke, which curled toward the ceiling of the kitchen with a decidedly nefarious air. 

“Do I need to tell Mrs. Hudson to evacuate the building?” John asked. It would not be the first time he had had to do so.

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, and John’s concern grew. “Not yet,” the other man said finally.

“Not very reassuring, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed and bent over his cauldron. John’s fingers itched to pull him back in case an explosion was imminent.    
  


“Do you think you could cast a protective shield around this? To contain potential fallout?” Sherlock asked. His voice was neutral, which John appreciated. He wasn’t judging John’s ability (or lack thereof) - he simply needed to know if John could manage the spell.

“I can try,” John said, pulling his wand from his pocket. He muttered a few words, and was pleased when the spell effortlessly knit together to form an invisible field around the pewter cauldron. Today, it appeared, his magic had decided to be agreeable.

Sherlock meanwhile began to thumb through an ancient book, one eye still on the smoking potion. He found the page he was searching for, set it down open on the table, and began to root through his jars of supplies.

The potion started to emit an eerie trill.

“Um, Sherlock.” John took a step back and wondered if it was time to make a run for it.

“A moment,” Sherlock said. He set down one bottle, grasped another, and with a soft “aha!” began to tap its contents into the cauldron. He held his wand high and Latin words spilled from his lips like poetry. 

For a moment, it looked like it would work. The bubbling potion began to still, and the smoke evaporated. John let out a steady breath and dared to peek at the wizard beside him. Sherlock grinned. 

Then there was a pop and the potion began to boil again, but with greater intensity. Yellow smoke billowed upwards. Sherlock froze for a heartbeat and then frowned, looking more insulted than worried. “This should be working,” he said, his voice sulky.

John had to agree. Even if his magic didn’t always listen, he  _ knew  _ magic - he knew it deep in his bones. He didn’t know the exact nature of the potion Sherlock was mixing, but he could see the barebones of the spell within it, clear as though it had been written in a glowing script from a quill. 

Eyes narrowed, John peered closer, trying to identify what was missing. And then he saw it. The spell was solid, but the power just wasn’t there. Sherlock, as clever as he was, didn’t have the sheer might to cast this particular spell.

Pushing a bit more force into his protective shield, hoping it would be enough, John reached out to snag Sherlock’s sleeve. He was planning to pull Sherlock away and hope that the explosion, which seemed inevitable, would be muffled enough by his own spell that the two of them could escape relatively unharmed.

A familiar sensation tickled John’s awareness, and he bit back an expletive as his power began to slip away. One moment his protective spell was working, and then the magic grew unruly like a wild beast in his hands. He continued to reach for Sherlock’s wrist, but kept his wand stretched toward the cauldron, putting all of his concentration into the spell.

John’s fingers closed around Sherlock’s wrist and his magic, which had been riotous only a moment before, grew still. Then it surged, as though fleeing from John, and although John’s attention was entirely on the cauldron before him, for a moment - just a moment - it felt like his magic was moving  _ towards  _ Sherlock. __

There was a sound very much like someone had raced by his head too quickly on a broom. The air in the room shifted.

Sherlock’s spell, suddenly and cleanly, caught. The fire under the pewter snapped out, yellow smoke raced downwards like running water into the cauldron, and the deep purple potion paled to a pretty lavender, smooth, viscous, and inert.

Both men stared at the table before them.

“That was unexpected,” Sherlock said, his voice hesitant. 

John risked a glance at Sherlock. His dramatic eyebrows were pulled into a tight V as he studied the potion, and his tongue was sticking out between his lips. John found his gaze lingering on Sherlock’s mouth, and he suddenly realized that he was still holding Sherlock’s wrist. He could feel Sherlock’s pulse under the delicate skin below his own thumb.

John dropped his hand. With that movement, Sherlock turned sharply to stare at John. His eyes flickered across John’s face, and John wondered if Sherlock was expecting something from him. He didn’t know what it could be. 

“Yes,” he said, coughing when he noticed how dry his throat was. “Well, your spell worked. Good job, that.” He frowned, looking for the remnants of his own protective spell. It was completely gone, blinked out of existence. 

“I’ll just…” He trailed off, not sure what to say next, and shoved his wand back into his pocket. “I’m back to my paper.” He turned away, unable to bear Sherlock’s gaze any longer. “Try to keep the dangerous incantations to a minimum, if you don’t mind. At least for the rest of today.”

Settling back in his chair, John scooped up The Daily Prophet and tried to focus on the first page. Through the newspaper, he could feel Sherlock’s regard, and he shifted uncomfortably. Even the moving photograph of the ministry official on the front page seemed distressed - in the black and white square, the image of the man kept turning to look nervously over his shoulder. 

Sherlock eventually returned to his potion, making more noise than seemed necessary, but for the rest of the morning, John would catch Sherlock sneaking glances at him. 

-

Life with Sherlock was never easy. Within their first week together, John learned that his new flatmate kept jars of nightshade and wolfsbane with the tea. Loud bangs would shake the floors of their flat at all hours, and his armchair became the victim of a transfiguration spell not once, not twice, but three times. If sometimes there were several jars filled with billywigs being kept in the loo, well, that was a typical Tuesday.

Sherlock had no compunction against testing cursed items on his unsuspecting flatmate, and John supposed he was lucky that Sherlock only did so when he was sure - mostly sure - that they wouldn’t cause any permanent damage. 

Sometimes John thought Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies should bother him more than they did.

-

“What’s your patronus?” John asked. He was rocking back and forth on his feet, shivering against the cold and hoping that a conversation would distract him. Every few minutes, his shoulder brushed Sherlock’s. 

They were standing in the shadows of a building across from the Leaky Cauldron. A gang of humans and goblins had been counterfeiting galleons, and Lestrade wanted them caught yesterday. Sherlock was certain they planned to meet tonight. 

Of course, John thought sulkily, Sherlock wouldn’t let them wait inside the pub where John could enjoy the warmth and maybe an ale. Instead they were outside, hidden from unfriendly eyes but not from the elements. John was soaking wet - he had used a spell to keep his shoes dry, but the magic could not be reigned in to protect his head and robes. 

Sherlock, who had been staring at the door to the pub as though sheer will could conjure the criminals, glanced over at John once and then returned to his quiet sentry.

“What makes you think I have one?” he asked, his voice a smoky whisper. “Plenty of wizards can’t cast the charm.”

John shivered and tucked his hands under his armpits. 

“I’m the one who can’t get his magic to work. Smart one like you - I bet you were the first in your class to conjure your patronus. I bet it’s something flashy and dramatic. Like a lion or a leopard or a bloody tiger.”

Sherlock’s lips tilted, and John knew he was fighting a smile.

“Those are all in the Panthera genus,” he said. “You think of my personality as having an affinity with a giant cat?”

John shrugged. “It makes sense, don’t you think? You spend a lot of your time at home engaging in spectacular feats of lounging. Then you race around the flat at night making an unholy racket. And you depend on me to feed you, but complain about whatever I offer. I think it’s a reasonable deduction.”

This time, Sherlock smiled outright. He peered at John from the corner of his eyes and his gaze swept from John’s head to his feet. He muttered a few words under his breath. The wetness of John’s robes evaporated, and although the rain still fell, it did not stick to his hair or clothing. He felt toasty and dry.

“Not an unreasonable bit of logic,” Sherlock admitted. “But completely wrong, of course. My patronus is a bee.”

John, still basking in sudden warmth and comfort, blinked up at Sherlock. “A bee?” he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “That’s awfully … small.” He grimaced, wishing he could take back his words. 

Sherlock did not appear offended. He continued to study John. “Perhaps deceptively so,” he said. “The ancient Celts thought the bee could act as a spirit messenger between our corporal world and the otherworld. The bee was thought to embody great wisdom and knowledge.”

John could not have looked away from those grey-blue eyes even if he had wished.

Sherlock’s head suddenly jerked and he stepped away from the shadows. “They’re here. Come on, John!” And he was running, feet pounding through the puddles as he raced away.

John rolled his eyes and chased after the detective and into the windy streets, Sherlock’s spell keeping him dry and warm.

-

For the first time since Romania, John felt like he was truly living. He didn’t get enough sleep, and he rarely got to actually finish a meal before Sherlock pulled him away for an errand. He was on first-name basis with several vampires, and even more Aurors. 

He had never had more fun.

But sometimes, John wondered if he was missing something. It nagged at him at the strangest times, in the midst of a chase or before he and Sherlock broke from their hiding spot to confront the nefarious potions master or murderous necromancer or whomever. John would sneak looks at Sherlock, who was his colleague, his flatmate, his friend… And he would wonder: was it selfish of him to wish they could be something more?

-

And then Moriarity started to blow up bits of both Muggle and magical London. And that wasn’t fun. 

As far as the Ministry could tell, Moriarty had not been in Voldemort’s inner circle. He had been a nobody, seemingly content to hide inside the deep shadows cast by the Dark Lord. Now the light of day was shining on his intricate webs, and even the Aurors seemed uneasy. Voldemort’s mission of wizard supremacy had been prejudiced and terrible, John thought, but at least there had been a method to his madness. Moriarity, it appeared, just wanted the world to burn.

John, who had seen the gruesome dead at the Battle of Hogwarts, who had lost the full dexterity of his wand arm there, and who still sometimes felt an ache that did not exist in his leg, hated every moment of Moriarty’s game. 

Much to John’s disgust, Sherlock found the mad wizard fascinating, and each day John battled a growing sense of dread as Moriarty raised the stakes and Sherlock hurried to comply. 

Sherlock insisted to John that he wasn’t a hero, that caring wasn’t an advantage. But John thought of how Sherlock never made him feel less for having unruly magic, how Sherlock had spelled his robes to keep John warm, how Sherlock sometimes stared at John with a surprisingly gentle gaze when he thought John wasn’t looking. He thought of how when the flat had been infested with imps two months ago, Sherlock had refused to call the exterminators and instead spent hours perfecting the charms that would drive the creatures away, annoyed but unharmed.

Maybe Sherlock wasn’t a hero, John thought, but he was hardly heartless. 

They bickered about it, over and over, and one night John simply couldn’t take it anymore, so he stormed out, down the steps of 221B, across Baker Street, and around the corner, his breath tight and angry in his chest.

That was when Moriarty took him.

-

The air at the pool thrummed with magic and it made John’s bones itch. The hex Moriarity had placed on him, set to explode if John tried to make a run for it, was stifling, almost as much as the compulsion spell that made his mouth form words that weren’t his own.

He was forgotten now, an ignored pawn in Moriarty and Sherlock’s game. The two men weren’t even looking at him as they traded barbed words. Moriarty hadn’t even bothered to have John's wand taken, and oh, that stung - it meant Moriarity knew that something was wrong with John and considered him a non-player.

Since the other men weren’t paying attention to him, John peered around the large pool area, unable to shake the feeling that he was missing something. It nagged in the back of his head, and made his eyes blur and blink, but he could feel it - he could practically  _ taste  _ it - and there it was. 

The room was covered in spells. Overlying concealment charms made it almost impossible for John to see them, but this was clearly a trap, and Sherlock had walked right into it …

He had to get Sherlock out.

John surged forward, wrapping his arms around Moriarty’s neck, pulling him close. He knew that the hex might go off then, but at least it would take Moriarity with him, he thought, and give Sherlock a chance to escape.

“Sherlock, run!” John pulled Moriarity close, gritting his teeth. “If the hex triggers, we both go up.” He spared a glance at Sherlock and was gutted to see the fear - fear for _him_ , John realized with a start \- on his friend’s face.

And Moriarity only laughed, the joyless sound galling to John’s ears. His head swiveled like a lizard’s as he turned to Sherlock, who stood frozen as a statue. “Isn’t he sweet?” Moriarity asked him. And then he muttered a word, soft as a lover’s whisper.

The concealment charms fell away, and the other spells John had sensed swam into view. It was like a punch to John’s belly. He stumbled back, letting go of Moriarty and letting his hands fall to his sides. 

John had known it was bad, but he hadn’t realized how bad. The entire building was covered in explosive spells. They weren’t complicated, but there were so many of them, each one overlying another, and the air in the room was thick and cloying with potential magic, all held on a hair trigger by Moriarity. 

Oh, but Moriarity was  _ powerful _ , John realized. The dark wizard’s laughter filled the room, echoing against the water. Sherlock, for his part, was slowly turning in a circle, his eyes racing over the spells, the emotionless mask completely gone from his face so that John could see only despair. 

Sherlock began to mutter under his breath, and the spell closest to him shook, and then blinked out of existence. But beyond that one was another, and another, all of them ugly and bloody and thrumming with malignant energy. And suddenly John was so, so terribly angry. Sherlock was a good wizard, a clever wizard, and who did he have by his side, but John Watson, who had power, but impotent power that just wouldn’t listen.

John had never felt more useless. 

“Gotcha!” Moriarity was saying, voice high and mad.

John touched the wand in his pocket and tried to shape the magic. Power began to flow from his fingers, pounding through his arteries, and he felt it begin to move… and then it slipped through his fingers. 

Moriarity continued to laugh, and Sherlock kept muttering - magic flew from his wand, and one explosive spell fell, and then another. 

“What are you doing?” Moriarty asked, his voice incredulous. “Even if you can take down half of my spells, there are still enough to destroy this entire city block! You, me, your little pet - every stupid little Muggle in their cozy home - you can’t save them, Sherlock. You can’t even save yourself.”

John closed his eyes, swallowing against the knot in his throat. He pulled the magic towards him again, and again he felt it spill away, spreading out like tendrils of mist. It was hopeless.

He let his head fall, his chin grazing his chest. Tears burned behind his eyelids. John remembered the hours, days,  _ years _ he had spent, begging his magic to listen. He thought of the sweat and the tears and the pain. He thought of every pitying look from his schoolmates, every sympathetic pat from his teachers, and every quick glance and hasty turning away from a fellow wizard. Sherlock never coddled and he had never patronized John. He had simply let John in - into his apartment, his world, his  _ life.  _ And what could John offer? 

When he opened his eyes again, the room before John was blurry with his unshed tears.

And then he noticed it: a few tendrils of power were making their roving way towards Sherlock. 

John blinked. He was reminded suddenly of the morning with the purple potion: Sherlock’s spell had been intricate and perfect, but not strong enough to complete the potion and reduce the boiling mess to something benign. John remembered the way his own magic had spilled away from him, and he hadn’t been sure at the time, but it had seemed to be moving  _ towards  _ Sherlock. The spell Sherlock had cast then was stronger and more solid than any John had seen Sherlock cast before.

John took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and made himself ignore Moriarity’s laughter. He willed his pounding heart to calm, and he let go of his wand, which clattered to the ground. His hands rested gently at his sides, the palms facing forward. 

And John simply stopped fighting his magic. 

He felt the power thrumming in his blood, and he felt the spells shuddering outside, so he took another deep breath … and he offered it.

Moriarty was not looking at him, having eyes only for Sherlock. Sherlock was angled away, but he must have seen something in John’s body language, because he stopped muttering spells, and his head cocked. He turned to stare at John.

John stared back. 

Their eyes met, and for a moment John could forget the peril and near-certainty of their deaths. For that heartbeat, it was simply he and Sherlock, the two of them against the world.

“Take it,” John said, his voice a whisper.

Sherlock reached out.

It was like standing in the narrow space between two buildings on a windy day. It was like jumping into a fast moving river, finding the current and shooting along with it. It was like flying on a broom with no hands. 

It was like remembering when he was a child and magic had no rules, but had simply just  _ been _ . 

The roaring in his ears was so loud he worried that his eardrums would rupture. John’s body was singing. He didn't think about trying to control the magic - he let it run through him, and he felt like a bottomless well. The power was unending. It flowed into him, pumping through his veins and flowing through muscle and fat and blood, and then it moved on, beating in time with his heart, out of his body and away .. 

...and into Sherlock.

Brilliant Sherlock, who was now aglow with power, charms dripping from his fingers and spells flying from his wand.

Moriarty’s spells didn’t blink out of existence - they shattered. One after another, like ceramic plates hitting a hard floor, the spells disintegrated. An otherworldly wind whipped around John, forcing him to his knees. Dimly he could hear Moriarity shouting, but the air around him was thick with power, blurring his vision into a kaleidoscope of colors and light. And over the din of shattering spells and Moriarity’s rage, there was Sherlock’s deep voice, sure and steady. Magic seemingly without end poured through John, slipping from his body to Sherlock’s, and then flew from Sherlock’s wand. 

And then in the next heartbeat, it was over. In the sudden silence, John found himself on his hands and knees, staring at the tiled floor with a burning chest. He took a greedy breath and then another, and the tightness eased. He felt like his body had been ground by a mortar and pestle. Panting, he struggled to find the strength to lift his heavy head.

The room around them was unchanged - the pool was calm and the dim lights flickered lazily. No sign of the magical storm was visible. 

Every one of Moriarty’s spells was gone.

Moriarity and Sherlock were facing each other, and had he not been exhausted, John would have laughed at the expression of utter bewilderment on the former’s face. Moriarty’s mouth worked, but no words emerged.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock glanced at John. John saw the sharp gaze fly across his body, taking in details with lightning quick speed. John let the lower half of his body slump to the ground in a barely controlled fall, keeping his arms stiff so that he could remain wearily seated.

Moriarity’s throat clicked, a word half formed, and then he fell silent, looking around the room slowly.

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow to John, and John huffed once, a weak expression of glee. And despite his fatigue, John knew he had just enough in him to open himself once more. He let the magic flow again, and this time he was able to watch the power, churning and skittering, reach Sherlock, who raised his wand with an imperious hand.

“Stupify!” 

Moriarity was thrown backwards three meters, his limp body skidding across the pool floor until it came to rest in an undignified heap. He lay still, unconscious and harmless.

Sherlock was suddenly at John’s side, his graceful fingers running across John’s face. His right hand pushed hard into John’s chest as though to feel the heartbeat beneath.

“Alright? Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, his eyes intent on John’s. 

“Yeah,” John said, and to his surprise, he found that he was. He ached, and he was sure that he could sleep for three days. He felt both nauseous and absolutely starving. But he was alive, and so was Sherlock. 

John grinned at Sherlock and was delighted when Sherlock responded with one of his real smiles - the one that crinkled the skin around his eyes and made him look almost goofy. 

“John,” he said. “Did you see what we did?” His voice trembled with excitement. “You fed me your magic. Do you know how rare that is? There have probably been no more than five wizards in the history of the world that could do something like that. You are a  _ wonder. _ ”

John raised his shaking left hand and covered the one that Sherlock had rested against his chest. “I always thought there was something wrong with my magic,” he said. “I thought there was something wrong with  _ me _ .” 

Sherlock’s face took on an expression John knew quite well - it was the one he made when he thought that John was being particularly dense and he was eager to enumerate the reasons he had come to this conclusion.

“You've never been the most luminous of people, John,” Sherlock said, “but as a conductor of magic, you are unbeatable.” 

John giggled, the sound high and a little hysterical, and he leaned forward. He wasn’t sure what he planned to do - maybe just rest his forehead against the forehead of the man who had rescued him. Who had fixed his psychosomatic limp. Who had given him purpose and laughter and finally a place where he felt like he belonged.

Sherlock leaned forward as well, and for a moment their foreheads touched, but then John saw something flicker across Sherlock’s eyes, and John had a moment to pause and peer more closely into Sherlock’s face before the other man tilted his head, and then their lips were touching. 

Sherlock’s lips were just as soft as John had imagined they would be, and his tongue, which swiped across the seam of John’s lips before delving inside, was just as clever. 

Oh, John thought. This was better than magic _.  _

-

After Lestrade and his Aurors had been called, after Moriarity had been tied up with so many spells that even Grindelwald himself wouldn’t have been able to break out, after Mycroft had apparated poolside to personally escort their prisoner to Azkaban, they were finally allowed to go home.

Sherlock took John to bed. 

That night they only slept, curled around each other like two perfect circles. John’s spirit may have been willing, but his body was drained, and he fell into a dreamless sleep so deep that when he woke late the following day, for several long moments he couldn’t remember how he had ended up in Sherlock’s bed. 

The memories came back slowly, and John remembered the kiss.

He became aware of someone breathing beside him, and he turned to look. Sherlock was awake, his wild dark curls stark against the white of his pillowcase, his eyes pale and intent on John’s face. For several long moments, the two men lay silently, simply looking at each other. Then John felt his lips begin to curl, and he watched Sherlock’s face transform from smooth marble that seemed untouchable to something very human and very kissable. 

John didn’t know which of them moved first, only that their lips were soon pressed together, morning breath sour but forgotten, and he answered Sherlock’s mewling gasp with a throaty growl of his own. Sharp teeth nipped lightly at his lips, and then Sherlock’s mouth, hot and wet, moved to his chin and down his throat. John reached an arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist, and he pulled the other man on top of him. Their groins pressed together, hardness sliding against answering hardness through pajama bottoms, and John thought he could become lost under Sherlock’s roving hands, wet mouth, and lean muscle. 

Sherlock’s mouth returned to John’s. Sherlock kissed like every touch might be their last. It was messy and hectic and  _ perfect _ . John thrust his hips upwards and grinned into Sherlock’s mouth as the other man’s groan reverberated through both of their chests. John reached down, finally able to put his hands on the arse he had been trying (and failing) not to stare at for months. 

Sherlock’s hands seemed to be everywhere - John’s face, then his chest, then reaching beneath the T-shirt John wore to sleep. His hands were a heavy brand on John’s ribs, and John had to tear his mouth away so he could gasp and suck in oxygen. 

“John,” Sherlock murmured, his cheek pressed tightly to John’s, his morning stubble rasping against John’s own, and John madly thought that his voice should be outlawed by the Ministry like an Unforgivable Curse. No one should have a voice like that. 

“This,” John panted, tugging ineffectively at Sherlock’s thin shirt. “It needs to go.” 

Sherlock reared back, and in the sudden cold air where his body had been, John shivered. But then Sherlock shuffled backwards awkwardly on the bed to rid himself of his pajama bottoms as well, and John found himself mesmerized. Sherlock seemed to be sculpted from miles of pale skin, and despite his thinness, his arms, legs and shoulders were lined with lean muscle.

“Merlin’s beard, you’re gorgeous,” John said, unable to stop himself, and Sherlock gave him a small and surprising shy smile in return. 

“Come here,” John said, hating the distance between them.

Shaking his head, Sherlock remained where he was. “You too,” he said, thrusting his chin towards John’s torso. John grinned and divested himself of his pajamas in record time. He reached up and pulled Sherlock to him, and both men groaned as their naked skin finally met. Sherlock’s mouth attacked John’s throat, sucking a blood bruise to the surface, then laved the smarting skin with his tongue in apology. John ran his nails down Sherlock’s back and thrust upwards. 

Sherlock twisted further up the bed so that his elbows rested on either side of John’s head, and John had a moment to notice that this brought their cocks into contact before a large hand snaked between their bodies and gripped the both of them at once. 

The sensation was exquisite. John felt his back arch off the bed. “Sherlock,” he managed to choke out, “I want this to last but if you keep doing that-” He gasped, words catching in his throat as Sherlock’s large hand moved up and down. 

“We’ll have more time later,” Sherlock said between kisses. “We’ll have all the time in the world. Right now, I need you.” He braced himself up on his left forearm, holding his body a few centimeters above John then, not quite touching. John heard him mutter a few words. Suddenly the hand that held both of their cocks was coated in slick.

As turned on as he was, John couldn’t help but giggle. Stormy pale eyes met his own in a glare.

“I’m sorry!” John managed to say. “Just you used wandless magic for lube! What would your professors from Beauxbatons say?”

Sherlock’s cheeks were flushed and his lips swollen from kissing, but he still managed to affect a haughty drawl. “I imagine they would say that I was being quite clever. They often said that about me.”

John started to laugh in earnest, but then Sherlock’s hand, slippery and warm, began to move, and John lost the laughter to a groan. “Right,” he managed to say before he lifted his head for another kiss. “Clever. Very clever.” He felt Sherlock smile into the kiss.

They quickly found a rhythm, and mirth gave way to pants and moans. Sherlock kissed with such relish that it was almost painful, but John couldn’t bring himself to pull away even a bit. He kept finding new places on Sherlock’s body to touch - the rolling muscles of Sherlock’s back, the sweat-wet hair at his nape, the clenching flesh of his buttocks. Sherlock pulled his lips away suddenly and began to pant against John’s scarred shoulder. He was close. They both were. 

When John finally came, his chest pressed to Sherlock’s, the other man’s breath hot against his shoulder, their cries loud in his ears, bliss crashing from his toes to his pelvis and over his head like a wave, John knew he’d never need to search for belonging again. 

-

Some things changed. 

Sherlock’s laboratory moved from the kitchen to the upstairs bedroom, and while Mrs. Hudson still occasionally needed to be evacuated when a potion went awry, John felt a little better knowing that the danger was no longer directly over her head. The downstairs bedroom became their bedroom. On nights in which there wasn’t a case, they fell into bed together, sometimes with passion, sometimes with laughter.

Other things didn’t change. 

It was still just as likely to find a poison in their kitchen as jam. Sherlock mistakenly turned himself incorporeal for an entire weekend, couldn’t work out the reversal spell, and eventually John was forced to owl Mycroft for help. One morning John wandered into the living room to find that the sofa  _ and  _ his chair had fallen victim to a transfiguration spell.

Sherlock didn’t have sex when he was on a case. The Work came first. John didn’t mind because he was an integral part of the Work. And Sherlock had other ways of showing his affection - a lingering touch, a quick but genuine smile meant for John’s eyes only, or a quick spell to keep John’s gloves warm during a particularly long stake-out. 

John began to realize that he had never been angry at the magic. He had been angry at the rules and those who had told him how he was supposed to be a wizard. 

Sometimes, when Sherlock was far away in his Mind Palace and John was left alone with his own thoughts, he’d feel a hint of old bitterness, lurking stubbornly under his skin. He’d run into an old friend from Hogwarts, and he’d see the thoughts they didn't voice: “Oh, there goes poor John Watson. Poor chap. Barely more than a Squib.” 

And John would take a deep breath and then turn away. Because when the Aurors faced a mysterious crime and were out of their depth (which was always, according to a certain consulting wizard), they called in Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

Sherlock would usually enter the scene first, all manic energy and quick spells, and John would hang back, sometimes speaking with the Aurors, sometimes not. But when it came time for Sherlock to cast a more difficult spell, John would move to join him. 

John would stand just out of touching distance with the other man, and Sherlock Holmes, who had once been known to be a clever wizard but not a particularly powerful one, would spin spells with magic deep and powerful, and John would close his eyes and feel that magic throb through his veins.

  
  
  


_ Fin _

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted in on the Potterlock fushion. I do, of course, repudiate JK Rowling's harmful and incredibly stupid transphobic comments. But, to be honest, I've always much preferred the Harry Potter fanon to the canon. This story is for the fans and the world, not for that woman.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta, Keyanna.


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